The Battle Cry of Freedom
by McJunker
Summary: A young American joins a grassroots resistance movement against the Russian occupation. Rated T for swearing and nongraphic violence.


It was dark out, just an hour past sun down. Half the streetlamps were still busted from the initial invasion. The rest were operating at half power to conserve energy. There wasn't much to see, anyway. Just rows of cheap cars and boarded up storefronts. No one went out after dark unless they had to.

I was stationed inside of a Starbucks, sipping a coffee and trying to look like I was reading. My book was a collection of poetry with a plastic thing over the cover. I had snagged it from a local library to give me concealment. I couldn't focus on the words. I was busy staring at my smartphone on my lap and the disposable phone on the table top.

A young woman in an apron and hair done up in a ponytail stopped by my table. "Excuse me, sir, but we're closing for curfew."

I looked up and frowned. "Curfew ain't till nine o'clock."

"Some of us live an hour away, so we close earlier."

In a low voice that was clearer and quieter than a whisper, I said, "Patriot."

She left without saying a word. Once she went behind the counter, I heard her tell the manager that she would close up, that the rest of them could go.

The phone on my lap vibrated. I picked it up and read, "Go."

Now that the moment was here, I was sweating and trembling. There was an odd sense of certainty, an excited voice in the back of your head saying, "Here we go. This is going to happen." It didn't matter if I was ready to kill or not, because this was going to happen. I was only along for the ride.

I dialed the only number in the disposable's memory. Two blocks west, out of my line of sight, an explosion rocked the street. The concussion went through my belly like a bass guitar. It shook Starbuck mugs and plates off the wall.

I stuffed the phones into my pockets and sped out the door.

When I joined up, I thought that I'd be James Bond or Rambo or something. The explosions would rock and I'd pretend to blow smoke off of my fingertip like a pistol barrel. I'd stalk down darkened city streets, owning every shadow, the deadliest predator in the urban jungle. I would be the dangerous one, the guy you don't mess with. The modern day American Minute Man, teaching the Russians to fear the night one confirmed kill at a time.

I was terrified. The only thing that linked me to the bombing was the disposable phone that I ditched down the first storm drain I came across. I should've been in the clear, especially since I was four blocks away from the blast site and there wasn't a uniform in sight, but I was still terrified.

So imagine my horror when a squad of Russians came bounding around a corner right towards me. There were twelve of them, armed with AK's and machine guns, and they moved as a unit. Half would move forward while the others trained their rifles on doors, alleys, windows.

I jammed my back up against the locked door of a 99 cents store, hands clenched by my side. Guilt must be on my face clear as day in the dim glare of the streetlamps. I thought, in a random stream of conciousness, that maybe that's why the muslim terrorists always wore face wraps. I was sure they'd shoot me on sight.

They didn't. Every one of them who passed on my side of the street aimed their weapon at me, but they were in a rush to get to their buddies at the blast site. It wouldn't take much for me to die; I understood that now. This wasn't Call of Duty. This wasn't a war movie. In real life, if they pointed their guns at me and pulled the trigger, I'd die and that was that. No dramatic last words, no noble gestures. Just blood on the pavement and one less guy hanging around.

They passed without incident.

Before I reached safety, I heard the thrumming of a pair of Hind helicopters zooming over American neighborhoods looking for squirters. That's what the guys who fought in Iraq and Afghanistan in the old days called the insurgents who ran away after attacking. I heard the Hinds' guns roaring and the rockets exploding. Someone was firing long burst after long burst from a machine gun, but they were so far away that the gunfire was nothing more than pops and crackles.

There were only two of us involved in the attack: me, and the scout on the fire escape of an old apartment who called me when the enemy patrol reached the trigger point. The fire didn't seem to be anywhere near Garcia's escape route. I had no idea who they were shooting at.

* * *

We Patriots had no fixed headquarters. There aren't many of us, and we pretty much know where to find everyone else involved, so we only meet as a group when we needed to, and always at a different address. The Russians can't kill us if they can't find us. Tonight, the headquarters was in the manager's office of a local Walmart. It was a small, cramped place for a group to hold court, but it was just for one night. The manager had left us the keys taped to the basket of a shopping cart.

Ted Freeman was in charge, if anyone. We never elected him and he never put on airs, but he had good ideas and smart plans, so we usually did what he told us to. He was a tall, muscular black guy in his late forties, with his hair cropped short and neat. He had deployed as an infantryman in the closing year of Afghanistan and to North Korea before getting out.

Freeman's permanent sidekick is James Kim, a Navy EOD tech who had deployed twice to Afghanistan. He was our chief bombmaker. He'd whip up explosives from household items and the rest of us would figure out who to get them under Russian feet. Kim was the oldest at age sixty, small and wiry, with twitchy hands and feet that only steadied while working.

Garcia was there too, and five other guys who just crowded up the office, only there to update those who couldn't make the meeting.

Freeman sat at the manager's desk, leaning forward to talk to us while resting his elbows on the wood.

"You two did a damn good job," he said.

Garcia and I grinned foolishly.

"I'm serious. Garcia, your idea to keep the triggerman at distance worked beautifully. We're including that trick into our tactics in the future. Now, I'm sure you're all wondering what the damage was. Kim?"

Kim stopped tapping his foot and said, "BDA indicates we killed two enemy soldiers and wounded two more."

Battle damage assessment. What a fancy word for a bunch of guys staring at the Russians tagging and bagging bodies after the gunfire died down. I wondered how many bombs it would take before the russkies just opened fire at any large gathering. BDA might dry up after the first couples of strikes.

"Unfortunately," Kim continued, "indications are we may have caught some passerby in the blast."

I kept myself from reacting, mostly. I didn't want to look like a pussy.

"We put the word out to the local hospitals. We're gonna get a good idea of how many Americans got hurt within the next day or two. I'm guessing no more than three or four."

"The street was almost deserted when I texted Dennis," Garcia said. "Can't be too many, right?"

Freeman shrugged. "Got me. Shit, I saw one dude get shrapnel in his hand from an IED a klick away. I saw another IED go off ten feet from another guy and he wasn't even hit. It's a fucking crap shoot. We just gotta stack the deck against Ivan and hope for the best."

Heads nodded. Approving grunts and murmers sounded.

"So what was with all the fucking choppers?" I asked. "They weren't nowhere near us. What were they shooting at?"

Freeman shrugged. "Anything that moved, man. They're pulling the same shit they pulled back in the eighties. Take fire from a village, you get rid of the village."

Kim nods. "I've only heard rumors so far, but word on the street is that those Hinds killed ten kids playing basketball on 23rd and Atlantic."

Some one pipes up. "Black hood?"

"Yes."

"Good. That oughtta kick the gangbangers off their asses." The black gangs know guys who know guys. They could, if they saw the profit, smuggle us better weapons then AR-15s and handguns. We especially wanted to get grenades and military grade explosives for Kim to work with. We'd been trying to recruit them since we decided to fight back, but they didn't give a fuck about us. We've had similar complaints about the CIA, but how the hell do you twist _their_ arm into helping you?

Freeman slapped the table. "Let's table this shit. It's been over a half hour and daddy's getting jumpy."

We laughed a little. Freeman was infamously paranoid about staying in one place for too long.

"So we did some good work today. Real good work. Garcia, Dennis, you fucking pump me up. Now let's close out and get home before a patrol swings through and wants to know why we're out past curfew.

"But before we leave, I want to say something to you all. I'm not big on speeches, I'm sure you've noticed that. But this is something I have to tell you. I read a quote once, by Robert Heinlein. 'The noblest fate that a man can endure is to place his own precious body between his homeland and war's desolation.' End quote. Our homeland is under attack. For the first time in over two hundred years, our enemies have got their boots on American soil. I am... I am proud of all of you for showing up to fight. Others will come later, as the fight drags on, but you have the honor of being the first to fight. The ones who stood up when no one else did. That's something no man can take from you.

"We're going to up the ante, gentlemen. Once we get the equipment and the hands on experience, we're going to stop this 'pop off a few rounds and run away' bullshit. We're going to go toe to toe with Russian forces and destroy them. We will ambush their patrols and slaughter them to the last man. We will shoot their Hinds out of the air and kill anyone who runs to help them. I swear to you that we will win this fight. That is my promise to you.

"I'm not gonna lie to you. Ivan has got more firepower then us, and he isn't stupid. Every time we come up with a new way to kill him, he'll work out a new way to counter us. He'll figure out ways to find us, to hunt us down. Not everyone in this room's gonna live to see the Russians run back to Siberia. But our sacrifice is worth it. I believe that. If I didn't, I'd be over at the Russian barracks shining boots for nickels. Mama Freeman didn't raise no stupid kids. If this cause wasn't worth dying for, I wouldn't be here at all.

"So if I lead, you follow me. If I die, you avenge me. We ain't playing dollar ante poker here. This fight's got higher stakes then any fight America's ever been in. And I'm damn glad that you all are up for the fight.

"Well. Enough talking. I feel like motherfucking Spetsnaz are gonna come in through the roof if we stick around much longer. You know the routes the patrols take, so keep the fuck off of them. They'll be looking for blood tonight, and they probably won't even give a shit if you're a Patriot or not. Get home, stay safe, keep your phones on and charged."

* * *

If Freeman allowed suicide bombings, I would volunteer. I know that death isn't glorious. I know that martyrdom only matters to the martyr before he dies. It doesn't matter. I'd do anything for the Patriots. My imagination can envision no task that I would refuse.

If we can keep pissing off the Russians when they patrol in the ghetto, they'll keeping shooting black kids. If those black kids keep dying, the gangs'll come around and get us an armory. If we show the government out east that we can wage guerrilla war successfully, they'll invest in us. Thatll be the big leagues. If the CIA smuggles us military maps, we could provide target coordinates to the stealth bombers. If they insert Special forces, we can get training and equipment beyond what Kim can provide. The possibilities are endless and dizzying.

I am at the glittering crest of the wave of history. Dying doesn't matter at all, because I won the second I decided to fight. And winning matters more than mere survival.

We will fill our vacant ranks with a million freemen more, shouting the battle cry of freedom.


End file.
